Rosalee stepped out of the study with a victorious sway in their step, the warm glow of satisfaction illuminating their crimson eyes. The hallway beyond the heavy door felt less oppressive than usual, the dim light spilling from crystal sconces suddenly casting a golden hue that matched the joy in their heart.
That went perfectly.
A smirk ghosted across their lips. A prestigious tutor and open training—they no longer needed to sneak off like a common thief. More importantly, the subtle use of Roland's name had paid off. If their oaf of a father thought dangling the prince's interest was enough incentive to invest in them, Rosalee would happily serve that delusion on a silver platter.
Down the corridor, Ben stood waiting dutifully in the shadows beside a tall pillar. The moment their eyes met, Rosalee lit up.
"Benny!"
They called, their voice airy and sweet like spun sugar. They skipped over, grabbed Ben's wrist with both hands, and tugged him down the corridor before the butler could speak.
"Come with me! Let's go to the garden!"
Ben blinked.
"Wait, what? The garden—now? Aren't you—"
"Nope!"
Rosalee cut him off with a giddy laugh.
"I'm in a splendid mood, Benny. Just humor me, won't you?"
The tug on his wrist wasn't forceful, but persuasive in a way Ben wasn't used to resisting. Rosalee's enthusiasm was infectious, and something in Ben's chest relaxed seeing it. There was no gloom, no dread like the Rosalee he was used to witnessing after visits to Abe Florenzia's study. This Rosalee… glowed. It was strange.
"Very well."
Ben murmured, letting himself be led.
Rosalee skipped lightly, their delicate hand still wrapped around Ben's wrist like they were old friends and not mistress and servant. The rose garden came into view, bathed in gentle afternoon light. The blooms shimmered with dew, a sea of pinks, reds, yellows, and violets dancing with every warm breeze. Rosalee released him at last and spun once, arms outstretched, the red of their cotton gown catching the sunlight.
This was the one place that felt like their's.
***
Back in the study, the silence between father and son was as thick as pipe smoke.
Thornwood stood rigid again, jaw tense, watching the door Rosalee had vanished behind.
"You can't be serious about this."
He said, finally.
Abe didn't look up from the ledger he had pulled toward himself, casually flipping pages.
"Serious enough to fund it."
Thornwood's hands curled behind his back, white-knuckled.
"She's a joke. A second pretending to be nobility. And now you want to waste resources on giving her—it—an elite tutor and combat training?"
"She used Prince Roland's name…"
Abe muttered.
"You and I both know that's leverage."
"But it was likely a lie!"
Thornwood hissed.
"Of course it was…"
Abe said without emotion, finally looking up, lips twisted in a sneer.
"You think I don't know my own child's tactics? But so what? Let the little peacock strut for now. If there's even a sliver of truth in what was said—and the prince does take a liking to her—then this entire household benefits."
"She's still a disgrace…"
Thornwood muttered, almost to himself.
"I don't like it. Something's… different. Ever since that tea party, Rosalee's been acting… strange."
Abe grunted.
"She's growing up. Good. Let that pathetic softshell evolve into something useful for once."
Thornwood frowned deeply.
"Ben's last report was too vague."
"Hm?"
Abe tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I want to know if something happened at that party. Something that triggered this change."
Thornwood crossed the room to the small writing table and grabbed the parchment folder Ben had left earlier.
"This is all I got—and it's barely a page."
"You're overthinking. That boy's more loyal to this family than anyone."
"I know..."
Thornwood snapped.
"That's why this bothers me. Ben doesn't miss details."
Abe hummed, clearly unconcerned.
"Send him another request if you're so bothered. Or better yet, have him tail Rosalee again. If there's anything worth knowing, I'm sure he'll uncover it."
Thornwood didn't reply.
Abe reclined in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head with a pleased grunt.
"Regardless, your progress is far more important to me than that foppish embarrassment. I heard about your upcoming parlor meeting with Count Wensdale and his circle. Smart of you."
Thornwood nodded, slightly mollified by the praise.
"They're looking to support a new trade line through the eastern border. If I show the Florenzia name has investment value, we may gain patronage."
Abe smiled, proud and calculating.
"Excellent. That's the kind of ambition I expect."
Thornwood allowed himself a small smirk.
As he left the study with the folder in hand, one last thought lingered in his mind. A brief flash of Rosalee's face—smiling, clever, calm in a way that unnerved him.
Something was different.
And he was going to find out exactly what.
***
The day pressed on and soon, the sun had risen to its peak and began its descent.
The clink of silverware against porcelain echoed softly through the estate halls as the scent of roasted meats and buttered vegetables drifted on the air. Rosalee's door creaked open to reveal Ben standing dutifully just outside, one hand clasped over the other, posture stiff but gaze gentle.
"It's time for dinner…"
Ben said, tone formal as ever.
"But if you're still not feeling well, I can inform the Earl and have a tray sent to your room again."
Rosalee, seated on the edge of their red chaise lounge with a small mirror in hand, was just finishing smoothing their lips with a delicate brush of tinted balm. They glanced up, eyes catching Ben's with a small, amused smile.
"How considerate…"
Rosalee said, voice soft and teasing.
"But I feel quite refreshed after spending my day with you, Benny. I wouldn't dare let myself miss dinner. Besides…"
They stood slowly, letting their long lashes lower into a sultry half-lidded gaze.
"Isn't it better to meet the beast in their den than keep hiding in my tower?"
Ben turned the faintest shade of rose at the mention of his nickname. Though his training as a butler had always urged invisibility, he couldn't deny the warmth blooming in his chest at the idea that his presence had brought comfort. He bowed low to hide his expression.
"I'm glad to be of assistance."
Rosalee walked past, their long red skirts fluttering behind them like the trailing feathers of a phoenix.
"Escort me, Benny. Let's not keep the wolves waiting."
Ben offered his arm, and they walked down the halls together, the heavy silence between them oddly comforting. When they reached the ornately carved double doors of the dining hall, Rosalee slowed only for a moment.
They could hear faint murmurs and the scrape of cutlery within.
'Good. They didn't wait.'
Without hesitation, Rosalee pushed open the doors and stepped into the cavernous room. The chandelier overhead spilled golden light across the long obsidian dining table, where three members of House Florenzia were already seated.
At the head sat Abe Florenzia, sipping from a crystal goblet of deep red wine. His freckled face was tight with silent irritation, though it wasn't clear if it was directed at Rosalee or simply life itself. To his left, Thornwood sat rigid and upright, a fork halfway to his mouth. He paused, sneering slightly at the sight of Rosalee entering like a debutante at a ball.
And to Abe's right sat her.
Lillian Florenzia.
Her hair was the faded color of orange yet not quite brown, pulled into a strict bun held with ruby-tipped pins. Her crimson eyes, the same as Rosalee's own, though were sharp and cold as flint, and her gown was a muted shade of grey-lilac, prim and high-collared, as if to reject any notion of warmth or softness.
Rosalee felt no tremble in their fingers, no hesitation in their step. Instead, a knowing smile curled on their lips.
'So this is the woman whose blood I inherited… how dull.'
Lillian looked up from her plate, regarded Rosalee with an expression as dry as old parchment, and clicked her tongue in thinly veiled disdain.
"Late."
She muttered.
Rosalee simply gave a graceful nod of acknowledgment, then swept toward the nearest seat beside her.
"Mother."
They said coolly, drawing out the syllables as if tasting something bitter but expensive.
No reply.
Ben helped pull out the ornate chair for Rosalee, bowing as they settled into the plush cushion. They gave a final glance between the three Florenzias—none of whom had paused their eating or acknowledged them—and quietly excused themselves.
Rosalee smoothed their napkin over their lap and turned their attention to the lavish spread before them. Roasted duck, sweet glazed carrots, a tower of cream-filled pastries, and spiced rice with raisins. More than enough to feed a small court.
And not a word of grace or offering.
No matter.
Rosalee began eating with delicate precision, slicing their duck with elegant movements, lips closing neatly around each bite—and then promptly devouring everything. Like a graceful beast, they reached for whatever the others hadn't touched, plucking roasted potatoes from Thornwood's side with a sweet hum, sipping from the untouched cider near Abe's elbow, and even helping themselves to an entire tray of candied apples meant for dessert.
Their eyes glinted with delight at the richness, the sugar, the pure indulgence. All the while, their off-key humming grew louder. A simple, aimless melody that matched neither tempo nor tone—yet Rosalee carried on with such gusto, it made the entire act feel deliberate.
Abe's brow twitched, casting a side glance at the sound.
Thornwood stopped chewing.
Even Lillian looked up briefly, arching one perfectly sculpted brow in quiet horror as Rosalee took a bite from a pink-frosted pastry while still licking honey off their fingers from the duck.
"What…"
Thornwood said under his breath.
"Is wrong with you?"
Rosalee smiled serenely, cheeks flushed from sugar and satisfaction.
"Oh? Just enjoying the family meal. Don't mind me."
"You're acting like a starving animal."
"Maybe I am."
Rosalee said cheerfully, voice airy and glib.
"You've starved me of warmth for years. I'm just making up for lost time."
Abe placed his goblet down, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Enough. Eat or leave, but spare us your drama."
"Oh, no drama, Father…"
Rosalee replied, sipping their cider with a clink.
"Only good food and better company."
Lillian spoke finally, without looking up.
"You speak as though you belong here."
Rosalee turned toward her slowly.
"I do, don't I? I have your nose, after all."
Lillian's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
And with that, the rest of the meal was eaten in tense, simmering silence—broken only by Rosalee's occasional off-tune humming and the sounds of forks scraping clean plates.
They would never love Rosalee.
And Rosalee had never intended for them to.
But tonight, they'd remembered their name. They'd looked. They'd watched.
That, to Rosalee, was enough. For now.
The dinner ended with the sound of silver clinking against fine china and the creak of chairs sliding back on marble. Rosalee, still humming lightly—though slightly more off tune now—dabbed their lips with a napkin, rose gracefully from their seat, and turned without a single word to the rest of the family. Ben was already waiting for them at the double doors like a loyal shadow, his eyes softening at the sight of Rosalee approaching.
With head held high and skirts gliding behind them like waves of velvet, Rosalee exited the dining hall with Ben trailing slightly behind.
The tension of dinner began to ease once the doors closed behind them, and Rosalee released a long, dramatic sigh.
"Well…"
They murmured, eyes still fixed forward.
"That was… enriching."
Ben smiled faintly, but it quickly vanished as a sharp voice sliced through the corridor behind them.
"Ben."
Both Rosalee and Ben halted mid-step. Thornwood stood just outside the dining hall, arms crossed and expression taut with irritation. His glasses had slid halfway down his nose, and he looked like someone who'd swallowed vinegar.
"Come to my study. Immediately…"
He ordered, tone curt and commanding.
"We've matters to discuss."
Ben stiffened, hesitating. His eyes flicked to Rosalee, unsure, as if asking for permission he didn't realize he sought. Rosalee turned toward him fully, the candlelight from the wall sconces catching the dewy glow of their cheeks and making their lashes glisten like starlight.
"Ah…"
Rosalee whispered, voice laced with feigned sadness and tender restraint.
"Of course. I wouldn't want to keep you from your duties, Benny."
Ben faltered. The nickname. The way Rosalee said it—breathy, fond, as if they were sharing a private secret in the middle of the quiet corridor—nearly made him forget Thornwood existed.
"I wish you a good night."
Rosalee continued, stepping slightly closer. Their expression shifted subtly into something more delicate, more pitiful. A soft pout pulled at their lower lip, and their lashes fluttered just slightly as they looked up at Ben through half-lowered eyes.
"Do be safe. You never know what kind of… snakes slither through noble halls."
Ben's throat bobbed in a hard swallow. He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was:
"I… yes. Good night, Lady Rosalee."
He bowed quickly—perhaps too quickly—and turned toward Thornwood, who was already walking down the corridor without looking back. Ben hurried to follow, but in his rush, his step caught slightly on the carpet.
Rosalee didn't miss it.
The way Ben stumbled ever so slightly, as if his body lagged behind his reluctant mind. A tiny, wonderful tremor in the butler's usually impenetrable composure.
'Perfect.'
Rosalee thought with satisfaction.
'Just a little more… and you'll fall completely into my hands, won't you, Benny?'
They watched Ben disappear down the hallway with Thornwood, then turned with a graceful swish of crimson skirts and began heading toward their own wing of the mansion. Each step light. Each breath humming with triumph.
He was almost theirs.
And once Ben fell—truly fell—Rosalee won't be alone in this cold, black prison of a house.
***
Thornwood's private study, unlike the bleak and cold room assigned to Rosalee, was warm and luxuriously decorated. Thick velvet drapes hung halfway open, allowing the last golden rays of sunset to spill in through wide-paned windows. The furniture gleamed with polish and care—a sprawling mahogany desk at the center, two matching armchairs before it, and a low-set plush couch with a carved coffee table hosting a silver tray of still-warm baked tarts and a glass pitcher of chilled water beading with condensation. Along the side walls were stacked rows of books and scrolls, maps pinned on corkboards, and various magical tools and quills inked and waiting for use.
Thornwood strode briskly to his high-backed chair, settling in with the self-importance of an earl-to-be. He folded his hands together and stared coldly at Ben, who stood at full attention just beyond the desk. His tone was sharp, clipped.
"Tell me exactly what transpired at the Duchess' tea party,"
Thornwood demanded.
"And don't give me the same summary you wrote in that lukewarm report. I want every detail—especially what led to that brat Rosalee acting like a completely different person today."
Ben's jaw clenched slightly at the insult, but his posture remained perfect. He bowed faintly and answered without emotion, though inside, a storm brewed.
"There isn't much more to say, Young Master."
Ben said, choosing his words carefully.
"Lady Rosalee arrived late, interacted with the other young ladies briefly, and was requested to demonstrate magic. She performed a water manipulation spell—minor, but precise. Afterward, she left the gathering before it ended. Nothing else occurred."
"Is that all?"
Thornwood's voice was tight with skepticism.
"You're sure? No whispers, no scandals, no tantrums behind a rose bush? You know I trust your loyalty, Ben. You owe everything to this family—and to me. I expect honesty."
The reminder struck deep. Thornwood's words weren't wrong. Ben had been taken in from the gutters as a starving child, clothed, fed, and trained under the Florenzia name. Thornwood had been his benefactor and master, always expecting obedience in return.
But as he stood there, recalling the soft shine of Rosalee's hair in the garden, the sound of their off-key humming at dinner, and the strange ache in his chest whenever Rosalee looked at him with such vulnerable eyes, something in Ben wavered.
"...That is all I saw, sir."
Ben repeated after a beat. His voice remained firm.
Thornwood clicked his tongue in irritation, but leaned back in his chair.
"Fine. If that's the truth, then I'll take your word for it. You're too sensible to lie for Rosalee anyway. Dismissed."
Ben bowed and turned briskly, leaving the study with steady steps. But once he was beyond the hall, that control fractured. His walk turned into a swift jog, then a near sprint by the time he reached his servant quarters. He slammed the door shut behind him and pressed his back against it, breathing heavily.
Something was wrong. He didn't lie—not really. But he also hadn't said everything. There was something in Rosalee's eyes lately. A shift. A spark. Something that gnawed at Ben's instincts, at the foundations of everything he thought he understood.
Throwing on a tight-fitting outfit of layered black cloth—something he wore only for stealthy movements across the estate—Ben opened the latch of the window and leapt out, using a subtle gust of wind magic to catch his descent. He glided down and around, making his way silently to the outer wall near Rosalee's room where rose vines twisted up toward the familiar balcony.
There he saw the soft glow of candlelight spilling from between the balcony curtains. Quietly, he scaled up and peered between the crack.
What he saw made his heart jolt.
Rosalee stood before a mirror, undoing the fastenings of a deep crimson robe that slithered down their shoulders like wine spilling over porcelain. Underneath, they wore nothing but a pair of sheer, lacy panties—decorated in intricate rose motifs and cut low at the hips. Their long hair had been swept back, damp from an earlier bath and reflecting the flickering candlelight like ribbons of fire. Only a a few strands of their firey hair dared to spill over their shoulder, enough to hide delectable perky nipples Ben could only guess were there.
Ben's eyes widened. His breath caught. He should have turned away.
But he didn't.
His gaze lingered on the smooth slope of Rosalee's back, the gentle dip of their waist, and the graceful poise they carried even when alone. Their skin gleamed faintly in the warm light, flawless and inviting.
Ben's chest felt too tight. His pulse thundered in his ears. When Rosalee disappeared into the bathroom, the soft rustle of fabric marking their exit, Ben finally released a shaky breath.
Only then did he notice the unmistakable ache in his body—an uncomfortable stiffness beneath his clothes. He flushed deep red, his face burning in the cool night air.
Cursing silently, Ben pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall of the balcony.
"What the hell am I doing..."
He muttered under his breath.
He saw them.
Rosalee, unguarded in the privacy of their chambers, wearing only delicate undergarments traced with rose embroidery. The lace clung soft and sheer, framing the pale curve of their body, leaving too much to the imagination—and yet never enough.
The sight struck him like a blow. Heat surged through his chest, down into his gut, until it burned lower, unavoidable. His breath caught as his body betrayed him. His groin stirred, heavy and aching with hunger he could barely suppress.
He stayed there until the candles dimmed and Rosalee, now dressed in a fresh nightgown, slid beneath the covers and curled up with surprising gentleness. It was only when he heard their steady breathing that Ben retreated, slipping down the wall and vanishing into the dark.
Back in his room, Ben stripped and took a cold shower, letting the freezing water bite his skin until his body calmed and his thoughts scattered. But even when he lay down in his cot, sleep didn't come easily.
Because all he could think about was Rosalee.
The delicate curve of their neck.
The laughter that danced behind their eyes.
And the dangerously warm feeling blooming in his chest.
He was supposed to be their watcher.
So why was he starting to want them for himself?
***
The morning sun cast warm golden streaks through the Florenzia estate's high windows, gilding the marble floors and rose-trimmed walls in honeyed light. Rosalee stepped out of their room with the grace of a noble heir and the seduction of a courtesan in disguise. Their high ponytail swung slightly with every step, the silken strands of pale red catching the sun and shimmering like fire-spun thread. The burgundy breeches hugged their legs in all the right ways, showing the faint contour of toned thighs and shapely calves that were beginning to regain definition. Their blouse was loosely laced at the front, the opening just wide enough to hint at the start of their collarbone and the smooth expanse of fair skin beneath. Without makeup, their face held a softness that made them appear younger, fresher—more dangerous, in a way that spoke of rare beauty untarnished by artifice.
Ben, who had been standing patiently just beside the door like always, nearly lost his composure.
It wasn't uncommon for him to see Rosalee each morning now, and yet—this version, stripped of cosmetics and styled decadence, knocked the breath out of him.
His thoughts turned traitorous.
'Beautiful... They look... untouched. Pure.'
Something primal stirred in his chest, and his throat dried at the realization that he didn't want others to see this side of Rosalee. This version was meant for him alone.
Ben bowed low to cover the flush crawling up his neck.
"Good morning, Lady Rosalee. Breakfast is ready. Afterward, I've been instructed to escort you to the training grounds. A knight will be waiting there to begin your lessons."
Rosalee blinked at him, catching the odd tension.
"Oh? Truly?"
They're voice was teasing, melodic. Then, with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk.
"Well, I suppose it's time I lived up to my noble blood."
Ben didn't respond right away. His eyes had lifted just a little too quickly and caught the shape of Rosalee's neck. Pale, slender, and so... biteable. He quickly turned, clearing his throat.
"Shall I escort you?"
Rosalee grinned inwardly but kept their face composed.
"Of course, Benny."
They deliberately linked their arm with Ben's, letting just enough of their side press close. It was a casual intimacy that would go unnoticed to the untrained eye, but it was impossible to ignore for the man at their side.
Ben stiffened only briefly, the way one might when holding back an involuntary response. Then he relaxed, falling into step beside Rosalee as they moved through the corridor.
From around corners and doorways, a few maids paused in their duties. Their eyes followed the second Florenzia child like moths to flame, but it wasn't just Rosalee they focused on today—it was Ben. Their Benny. Their untouchable knight in butler's clothes.
And here he was, being clung to by the strange, spoiled second who now shone like starlight—and looked at Ben like he belonged to them.
Mouths tightened. Fingers clenched around mops and serving trays. Jealousy bloomed like thorns in shadowed hearts.
Rosalee caught the glances, every single one. It made their morning.
They leaned in, letting their high ponytail fall just over their shoulder, tickling Ben's arm.
"You seem tense, Benny. Something on your mind?"
Ben hesitated before answering.
"No, my lady. Merely focused on today's schedule."
Rosalee narrowed his eyes slightly.
'Liar.'
But rather than press, they just smiled wider.
"Good. Then let's have a good breakfast before I start breaking a sweat. Can't be a delicate flower forever, can I?"
Ben didn't answer, but his grip on Rosalee's arm tightened ever so slightly.
They walked on, one glowing like dawn, the other shadowed with thoughts he couldn't bring himself to voice—yet.